Iron Without
by Sanguine Sanctus
Summary: The attempt of a former Iron Warriors legionnaire to settle and build a life on a feudal world. Although his past may not be far behind him, could a tired soldier learn to live? Please enjoy and let me know what you thought of it, got more 40k works planned. EDIT: This was planned to be a one-shot but people have requested more.
1. Prologue

**Without Iron**

"_From Iron, cometh Strength_

_From Strength, cometh Will_

_From Will, cometh Faith_

_From Faith, cometh Honour_

_From Honour, cometh Iron_

_This is the Unbreakable Litany_

_And may it forever be so"_

Dawn came swift as always, illuminating the fields in a light that is both amber and warm, another fine day. The days are simple, the most interesting things to happen are paying the local Lord's tax or hunting vermin. While a sweat ridden brow and tending to fields was far from an extraordinary existence, some would even say that it was hardly one of merit, to the lonely farmer it was a gift.

One that he repented for each day.

The township knew Trak well, being alive for several centuries had made him a central figure in the community. Knowledge of advanced infrastructure, construction and other innovations quickly cemented a place of importance for him within Gramsby. A place where his hands could build, to be celebrated, toil and be loved for his efforts.

So it was that at the end of each day, in the confines of his homestead, that he would mourn and beg forgiveness of his brothers. Flagellation, diligent and stoic, this was the way Trak had decided to lament the losses of his Legion and how they were deceived by their Primarch, someone they should have been able to trust. A man who would walk through the Warp and back for them.

Grim fields of slaughter, trenches piled with bodies, decades long sieges. Such things could indeed damage the mind of even one of the Adeptus Astartes if not seen to correctly. After living as a mortal for so long it had become clear that many things which he and his brothers had endured would break a weaker mind a thousandfold, all they had were one another.

If the nights were clear Trak made sure to pray for his Legion under the light of the stars. Although he would surely be condemned as a traitor and deserter for leaving his battle brothers though it was after hearing of the battle at Istavan III that his faith in the Imperium shattered, after all how could it not, worlds had been bathed in blood in the name of the Great Crusade. Battles fought shoulder to shoulder between every Legion and now they were turning on each other like feral dogs?

The Emperor would eternally be a guiding light to the grim psych that has become Trak's mind though his faith in the Imperium of Man and what it stood for had long since been lost. Although the feudal world he currently resided on was under the administration of what he considered a false Imperium, it only small space port along with housing for Imperial officials.

Whilst it had been a shock to the people of Gramsby when an armoured giant clambered out of a Thunderhawk, barely holding itself together, demanding to know where he was, the planet Idilin it turned out. Soon the Angel of Death began to integrate into the remote township, being experienced in siege and fortification granted Trak with enough technical knowledge to be a benefit enough that they tolerated his presence without revealing him to the authorities.

512 years he had lived in this universe. Two centuries of which had been spent in the Great Crusade, admittedly he battled as the campaign was coming to a close, Trek's short service time was due to the high rate of death within the ranks of the Iron Warriors legion. By the time he was an active battle brother there was only nihilism and apathy in the minds of his seniors, an attitude that quickly settled itself within him. Where once determination and grit made them fight for a better future now there was only the knowledge that this life was now all they knew, all they were good for and that escape was not an option.

So he thought, at least, until he could take no more. Till watching the bulwark of humanity break under the strain, on the bleak fields of battle he discovered that even their iron will could be broken. Many brothers had died face down, he thanked the Emperor for that, even more were mowed down in thoughtless assaults. All due to the wretched and petty man that they once called father. Although Trak had never heard of more news beyond the end of the supposed Horus Heresy and the death of the Emperor which had now become a god in the eyes of his subjects,

Without battle, without bloodshed, the lonely astartes had come to know a form of peace through daily labour. Yet in the back of his mind a mantra always whispered, one a fallen brother used to say to focus his mind. "There is only war".

**Gramsby, The Celebration of the Gilded Harvest**

It was with reluctance that Trak now pulled his cart into town for the native agricultural festival, most years he simply delivered his share of goods to do business then left. However one of the families that he had known for generations begged him to come, their children refused to get off his legs till he agreed to. A slight pull at the corner of his lips betrayed what may be a smile, the mortals had indeed grown on him, at first he wanted nothing to do with the town which he built his homestead near. When time passed and he traded more, their faces became common occurrences in his life as did speaking with them, so too did a part of him begin to see them as companions of a sort.

This particular family, the Kasdens, had been the first to offer him aid and defend him when suspicion arouse from the mobs. It was thanks to them that he could trade and live as a mortal man did. For that he could put aside his less than sociable attitude for one day. Once within the stone walls of Gramsby, the familiar sound of wheels over cobble rang down the street, a comforting repetitive sound much like automated fire from a weapon.

Many other farmers and merchants would be here soon however the Astartes wanted to come slightly earlier than he needed to be.

"Trak! You made it".

The reason made itself known. Looking across the street there was a two story home, built of strong wood, hanging out of the door was a young woman waving. A particularly happy one at that, their smile wide and bright. Before their body was riddled with bullets, falling limp and disfigured.

Choirs of screaming accompanied a steady beat of gunshots, the sounds of slaughter echoed through the streets getting louder by the second.

Trak's being disassociated with the man he had been and became the Astartes that fought amongst the stars. Looking behind him to see the source of gunfire, though he heard more shots ringing elsewhere in the town. A group of five gunmen, wielding weapons not native to this world, clad in defaced flak armour marched in a semi-disciplined formation as they gunned down civilians with wicked grins splitting their faces.

In the time it took them to notice Trak he had already flipped the cart facing them, the sacks of grain and wheat took the brunt of rounds that began spraying towards the improvised cover. As the assailants began to advance on his position while ensuring he stayed put meanwhile Trak pulled off a large plank from the side of the cart not being peppered with rounds, compromising with the wooden club he would now use to assault his attackers.

As the assailants prepared to round the corner of the cart Trak launched it into them with a mighty kick, splintering the wooden construct and throwing the gunmen to the floor. Once they had been knocked down the Astartes proceeded to bludgeon his assailants' skulls to a pulp, their blood and grey matter clumped together on the makeshift 4x4.

Once dead Trak stripped them for weapons, ammo and supplies. Slinging a stub rifle over his shoulder and shoving as much ammo he could carry in the pouches he acquired. Once prepared the warrior sprinted over to where the young girl was shot down, to kneel before her bullet ridden corpse. 'Lalise...No, Emperor no'.

Although she was but a child to him, this was the daughter of a family he had lived alongside for the longest time, it pained him to see a life so young gunned down for a senseless reason. Something that rang all too familiar with his past, the memories of running over his fallen brothers corpses flashing through his mind.

Though dead the young woman's left eye was still wide open, as though still shocked at suddenly being gunned down, his hand delicately closed the one eyelid left avoiding the bloody hole that was her right eye.

'May you know peace in the Emperor's light child, for I will bring the fury of his fire'.

It would take a while to get back to his farm with the potential other gangs roaming the town, though even days or years would not stop him now. Under his bedroom's floor, sealed in an iron trunk was the armour he wore when he first arrived on Idilin, knowing the task set before him Trak loaded a magazine.

'Iron within'.


	2. Chapter 1

**So before I start this next chapter I would just like to thank everyone who followed me, made this story a favourite and reviewed. The last chapter was not as detailed as my usual works as it was meant to be a one-shot though it seems some people would like to see this story continue, so I shall do another chapter to see where this goes. Once more, thank you all very much, let us proceed to the story.**

**Iron Without**

_Chapter 1, How the Guns Echo_

The cobbles were stained with dried blood, crusted black, doors and windows crushed inwards where crimson hand prints could be soon trying to crawl from the horror. Bodies left to rot where they fell, eyes dull and blank, rows of homes stank of the putrid smell that mass death wrought. A common sight was mother and fathers limply laying atop their children who could not be protected from the bullets that severed both parent and child from life. In certain parts of Gramsby bodies had been lined together in orderly rows, families together and for those that could not be identified they too were lead side by side, most placed outside their homes if they still stood or where not blasted to pieces.

A sombre echo could be heard, slow and rhythmic, the solid clunk of ceramite against stone accompanied the low growl of a power pack. Where targets where found they were shot down, not in great sprays and waves of rounds as they had done the villagers but with the precise application of controlled fire. Short bursts brought down foe after foe, three to five round piercing the head or heart, minimizing cost while maximizing efficiency.

In the hours since Trak had to retreat from Gramsby to properly arm himself the enemy force had grown lax and lost the little discipline fear had given them, now that he had the time to think it was clear that these people were some form of raiding party or pirate group, though their purpose for being here beyond the Feudal world being an easier target was beyond him. Despite their reasons they would die all the same.

Though the tide had began to turn and the enemy began to feel it, as like the tide it crept till it was upon you and that was when it was all too late. While the primitive rounds of the enemies stubbers ricocheted off his power armour, their panic causing them to flee or desperately fight. Those that fled died facing down while those that fought where felled just as swiftly. Despite this Trak knew better than to rely on brute force and throwing oneself into the fray mindlessly, he had seen far too much of that from his wretched Primarch.

Instead he had opted for hunting his enemy, stalking them as best he could as their lack of training was an advantage he would exploit, though their lack in professional soldiering seemed to be outweighed by their experience in raiding and brutality. While he did not possess the same skill in stealth or subterfuge as the Night Lords or Raven Guard yet it added the edge he needed against the greater number he opposed, be it by bullet or fist he struck them all down.

Methodically he made a path towards the keep in the centre of town, if there was a place that could of held out against the attackers this would be it, the only other place on Idilin that would be more secure than this towns keep would be the space port. From that space port he could potentially summon reinforcements or the Imperial authorities.

Upon his approach towards the keep Trak noted bodies of the raiders strewn about before the portcullis, the gate of which had been blown open. The thought of this foe having heavy ordinance was not beyond the realm of possibility but the confirmation gave him worry and new parameters of thought, at the very least he could now expect it. Even the Mk III power armour had a limit to how much punishment it could take.

As he began to walk through what was an iron gate a choir of clangs, pings and clunks were heard the moment he stepped foot through the threshold. Trak had raised a hand to guard his visor while he was assailed from multiple points.

'Hold fire! Hold I say, this is not our foe!'

All of a sudden the fire shooting stopped, prompting Trak to lower his hand and present a less guarded stance. Eight men in plate mail each armed with a weapon, the bodies at the portcullis had been relieved of theirs, however that left three of them to wield crossbows.

'Affirmative, it is me Trak, I have been sweeping the village for survivors'. There was a glimmer of hope in the eyes of the men before him and their lord. 'Sadly I could find none, but I placed them by their homes and have prepared them to be laid to rest'.

Although this was not what any of them wanted to hear the respect of their dead and that they had something to bury was a pillar they could lean on in their grief, he knew all to well the despair of burying a soul without a body or worse leaving the body behind.

'Thank the Emperor, I feared the worse, so long as we have you then we shall stand a chance'. The lord was a man Trak knew as Jarik Gunder, an aged man that had been wizened by his years of life, when he was a child it had been Trak that taught him about the universe, millitary tactics and even helped train him to be better than his peers in noble social circles. 'Now that you are here we can properly plan a counter attack, what do you suggest?'

Pulling off a canvas rucksack that was tied on his power pack he approached the men and Lord Gunder, whom gathered in a circle. 'This is all the flak armour I could carry and I have more than enough ammunition for all of us for the time being, that plate will not properly protect you from more advanced firearms. Also some of you drag the bodies inside and strip them down for supplies, see if they have any of the explosives left that they used to breech the gate. Today we bring the Emperor's fury!'

'Yes sir!'

Once the men were properly armed and suited to combat the raiders, the lord too replaced his ceremonial plate with the marred flak armour. Trak made sure to drill them enough in loading and firing that he was confident they would not hinder the mission.

Together they did a final sweep of Gramsby to see if any survivors had managed to hide well enough but all they found were corpses and empty homes, the once inviting and warm wooden homes were now cold with the ghosts of their slain occupants haunting the once thriving town. It was as they had agreed to go to the space port, that was a five day ride, that one Gunder's knights spoke out. 'Lord Trak'.

'Trak will do soldier, what is it?'

The man seemed to contemplate whatever he was about to say, making sure it was truly worth saying. 'Well, Trak, lately I heard tell of a cult that had sprung up in the others lands. Heard they committed heretical rituals, praised pagan gods and branded themselves with this symbol here'. He pointed to a symbol that had been carved into the chest piece of the flak armour, what appeared to be an eight pointed star.

Now that he had time to properly observe the symbol it did call to a distant memory, one long ago when he was a legionnaire, he remembered seeing some members of other legions having talismans of such a symbol or even engraving it onto their weapons or pieces of their power armour. Sure enough it was the ones who had began to speak of treason, even those of his own legion began to do it though he knew in his heart not all of them had turned. They held too much love for the future of humanity, even if they had become jaded.

'All I know is that this does not bode well for us, that is an evil symbol'. Evil was belittling Trak's true thought of the symbol and what it meant for those who witnessed it. 'It is meant to represent the forces of chaos and used to worship the gods of chaos as a whole, in fact I was once invited into such a cult, it took all I had to walk away from slaying one of my brothers'.

The look of shock on the man's face set into a deeper sense of dread, as did many of them men that could hear their conversation. 'You mean we could end up facing daemons?'

He asked the question straight and sure, as if he was asking if he should prepare for his own death. 'We could, yes, though daemon, xeno or man they all fall the same to bullet and blade. The Emperor protects'.

'The Emperor protects'. Replied the other men and Lord Gunder, preparing themselves to face horror incarnate.

The band of warriors found themselves at Gramsby's stables and began to prepare two carts to travel to the space port, ensuring the horses were fed and watered before hand as well as preparing provisions for the journey. What awaited them beyond the tall walls of their home town was unknown, which made it dangerous, though for what little it counted for they held a small measure of hope.

For they had an angel of the Emperor on their side, a warrior of iron.


	3. Chapter 2

**Regarding the direction of this story it has a definitive end and will shall be coming to the point soon. However do not be disappointed by this as I have further plans in the works that I hope you will find to your liking, let the story proceed.**

**Iron Within**

'Brother! Get up, we need to keep moving!'

The buzz, whirl and bang of ordnance assaulting their position perpetuated the ringing inside his skull. His helmet cracked, hissing as the pressure seal had broken, prevented the armour from tuning out the deafening noise of battle.

'Please brother! We are being surrounded! I won't leave you behind!'

Dragging his comrade through the mud and wreckages of the battlefield, the apothacary had been killed by a stray artillery shell striking their power pack. There was no way he would abandon his brother or his gene-seed, for all he knew his brother may still have enough life left to be placed within a dreadnought, no matter the cost he would pull his brother from this hell.

As he continued to retreat back to friendly territory there were more of his fallen brothers, some had been blasted to pieces whilst others had fallen atop one another in great piles, the odd few were buried underneath the mass of earth that had befallen them as the trenches became unstable. If only Perturabo had actually planned a proper assault, if only they had logistical support and air superiority. If only there was no need for so much death.

Suddenly he was dragged down as the battle brother he had been pulling grabbed his arms in a burst of motion, dragging him down in a jerking motion. 'B-Brother!'

Trak leaned in closer, holding his brother close. 'I am here! I won't leave you behind, we can make it!'

Then he felt his legs being pulled down through the earth as armoured hand grasped him, pulling him into the ground, yet as he looked about in panic he could see his once fallen brothers crawling towards him. Some were missing their lower half, organs dragging across the dirt, whilst others had no head or were simply a disembodied arms slowly grasping at the earth to crawl forwards.

'Join us brother, why do you persist? Enter the sweet slumber. It will only hurt for a moment'.

'No! No! Aghhh!'

Trak awoke in a cold sweat, he had allowed himself to sleep on the way towards to space port, he was sat upright still in his armour. Although he had gotten used to sleeping in a bed this was the closest thing to comfort he had ever known, the feel of a protective shell that little bar the most oppressive firepower could penetrate, it brought back memories of him and his brothers sleeping side by side in a improvised bunker packed together tighter than a ration pack.

The nightmare was similar to others he had, there were reoccurring themes in each though each one was never the same, yet in every one the main thing that persisted was that all his efforts would ultimately be futile. It seemed that his episode had not awoken or disturbed any of his comrades and their destination could be seen in the distance, peaking over the horizon, his plan of having alternating shifts for driving the carts and being on watch had worked out quite well. They had managed to make over half the journey without stopping, thankfully the weather had been on heir side as no rains had come nor any adverse wind, fog or storms.

'Are you alright Trak?'

Gunder asked him, although it was early in the morning he was still awake despite it being his turn to rest, while he was not looking directly at him Trak knew that the creased brow was the man's worry for the astartes. 'Just memories that will not rest, it is the burden of an aged warrior'.

'Haha, aged you say, I am not even a quarter of your age and yet I still find myself struggling to move as of late. Though I don't envy you, it must be lonely, being the only one of your kind on this world'. Though no eye contact was made, despite minimal body language, Trak knew that the old lord was sincerer.

The astartes took a moment to digest his words. 'I am lonely, that much I will admit, though I have been far from alone since building my home here. While I would give anything to see my brothers again, to see them well and victorious, at the same time things can never be as they once were. Not after the betrayal of Horus. Instead I have tried to ease the spirits of my brothers by building a life, one that they could be proud of, one that they would of wanted. Despite how distant we became from humanity and sick with the wars we had to fight under the command of our traitorous Primarch...I and most of my brothers never once stopped loving the possibility of a prosperous Imperium, where humanity would be free'.

The lord beside him took a few moments before he replied, a small smile formed upon his aged face. 'Then I thank the Emperor for what brought you here, for allowing our people to witness your glory, though you never once fought a war here you did grant us your engineering genius, the skills of a builder and craftsman. Even now in a time of conflict and uncertainty your mind was set on laying our dead to rest and ensuring the safety of our people. So whatever pain that brought you here I am thankfully that you were strong enough to endure it and that your path lead you here'.

Trak was at a loss for how to respond, although he had received praise and thanks from the people of this world before it had never been with such depth. It was after a few moments that he decided that no reply was needed, for Lord Gunder's honesty required no thanks or questioning, Trak knew already that he would not of said what he had with half a heart and for the first time since the shooting at Gramsby he felt a wave of content fall upon him.

'Then we push on, despite the pain, to our destiny Lord'.

With a chuckle Gunder cracked a grin. 'Aye, that we do'.

Over the next few days they came closer and closer to their destination, passing towns and villages that had been raided too. Though they had no reason to search them or look for the dead because all the homes were burnt to ashes and the bodies had been left to the flames, while it was not the way any of them wanted to lay the fallen to rest it was better than their corpses being left in a mangled state. It slowly became clear that while everything had been left to burn there was evidence that they had some form of aircraft, the blackened and flattened grass was proof of that, which meant that their capable mobilities severely out matched their own. While it was a speculation now it was a fact that meant their enemy could drop on them at any moment, though they had yet to hear or see anything roaming the skies. Which brought more worry was they had not seen anything coming out of the space port, while imports happened once or twice a solar year it was more common for Idilin to push exports out in food, resources and man power being shipped out.

It was a discussed possibility between the band of warriors that the space port could quite possibly be in the hands of the enemy raiders, although it was a terrifying prospect it was one they had to prepare for. So it was the what remained of their journey became a constant stream of possibilities being discussed, dissected and plans were made according. Knowing that no plan survived first contact they developed fall back plans and ensured everyone knew what role they had to play once they finally arrived. For once they did that would be when the floodgates truly opened, fighting an enemy mid-assault and caught off guard was more difficult then battling through one that had the time to dig their claws into a fortified position.

It took all Trak had to separate the past from the future, praying silently to the Emperor that he would not have to witness another massacre and begging for the strength and mental fortitude to be better than his gene-farther. If he couldn't keep these men alive or even defend this world, he hoped that at the very least his soul would be sent to the same place as his brother so that he may see them again.

**At the gates of the Planetary Space Port and Imperial Embassy**

What remained of the defence gates and turrets had been blasted to molten slag. Bodies of Arbites, PDF and mercenaries that had been on site at the time of attack. There was no way this was as small as a raiding force or band of pirates, this had been planned and deliberate down to every last move. It seemed the only thing they had not accounted for was the presence of an astartes, for now it seemed that was the only trump card their side had.

Trak ensured that they marched in a proper formation, ensuring potential blind spots were covered, they made sure to move steadily and inspect any potential traps or points of ambush. Although the enemy might hesitate due to them wearing their regalia it left Trak as the sore thumb that would disrupt any means of infiltration, for the time being they had to suspect that the enemy was breathing down their necks at all times.

After clearing the entrance and security posts they made sure to visit the barracks and the arbites base of operations. There they had managed to procure more weapons, ammunition along with other useful items such as restraints and tear gas. Atop this they secured an auto-cannon along with a decent pool of ammunition for it, Trak decided to heft it with a helmet-hidden grin upon his face.

They decided to hole up in the arbites base, after bringing the tools and equipment over from the PDF barracks, the detainment rooms meant that they all had a private room for the night and would be secure if anyone attacked meanwhile Trak opted to stay on shift for the night. He set up a small fortified position in the hallway leading to the detention centre, using desks and cabinets to provide improvised half-cover. While he paid a close mind the the closed door that could be breached at any moment he did so while working on the sets of flak armour his comrades had doffed before retiring for the night.

Using what could be salvaged from the dead arbites and what they had found in the barracks and arbites lockers Trak was ensuring these men who would fight with him would live, by his hands he would make it so. The space marine was no tech priest but he had experience in field repair and modification, one had to when so his legion was left to fend for it self in so many battles.

Although the armour would be thicker, heavier and compromise any chance of infiltration it would ensure that they wouldn't go down to the first few shots, that perhaps a stray shot or ricochet wouldn't end of precious life.

By his Emperor given hands no more lives be reaped by this foe.


	4. Chapter 3

**Within Iron**

The morning came, with the dawn they moved to assault the space port. Where the enemy had blown through a defence they failed to have the foresight to cover their tracks and seal the breeches they had made, the enemies failing would bring them success. What awaited them within, none but Trak was ready for, bodies were strung from pipes and impaled on walls, while the star of chaos had been painted in blood across doors and even carved into corpses. An eerie silence drowned the ragtag squad as they had expected a grizzly firefight to get through to the embassy and the control tower, everything that had planned for was not encountered, even as they delved deeper into the facility all they began to find were more bodies littered about though now they were nude, with more than the chaos star carved into their forms but more esoteric symbols no doubt venerating and invoking dark heretical powers.

Trak felt the fear sinking into his fellow warriors, their movements becoming more frantic and their breathing getting faster than longer this silent horror continued. Even as they made their way into the control tower there was nothing to be found at the entrance in terms of traps or barricades only two guards strung up by their own intestines were to be found. What began to disturb even Trak as they made the ascent up the tower was that a majority of the corpses they came across as they climbed higher were the chaos cultists, their deaths seemingly self inflicted and their smiles of glee that carried on after death only made Trak and the men with him ever more cautious.

At least all of the men and Gunder had been brought to vomit at least once, brought to a panic attack or cry. He did not think of them as lesser, tell them to ignore those emotions or even treat them as beneath him. Instead Trak gave them a solitary moment, spoke what words he could that would help this mess make sense despite that fact that it never could then left them with the knowledge that he too was not free from the burdens of the human soul.

When they came to the end of the stairwell, before the door that would lead into the control room, Gunder held up a hand to halt the group's advance. 'What will we find in there? After what we have seen so far. Do you think it is possible we would survive?'

'I cannot make promises that what we will find will not scar the depths of your minds for eternity or that what we face will not be a beast from the depths of the warp. What I will tell you men is that I will be the one to lead the way into that hell, whatever may come'.

The band of men gave each other one last glance of solidarity, giving the other a firm nod, then Trak launched the security door off its hinges. Brandishing the auto-cannon he swept the room, scanning every bit of tactical information he could from his surroundings. The lights flickered erratically, as did the screens of cogitators and other devices that composed the control room of the space port, administrating such an operation required the proper technology and procedures. However all the occupants, both those who belonged and the invaders, were piled in a sick flesh shrine to chaos. They were bled out, marked with dark symbols and left to die slowly. It was obvious who the willing participants were, for they too had the same gleeful smile set into their cold, dead, faces.

'What in the Emperor's name is this?' One of the men asked, holding a hand to his mouth.

Trak observed what seemed to be a dim and sickly purple glow emanating beneath the bodies, pulsing in a steady rhythm. 'Stand back men, you too Gunder, I do not know what foul forms of sorcery the enemy is capable of'.

As requested the men all made sure they were back at the door Trak kicked in. Slowly he nudged the bodies out of the way, using the barrel of the auto-cannon, for all he knew the bodies could be rigged to blow. Once the first three were moved aside it was as though he was looking into a maelstrom of gale and lightning, fire and ominous shadows that loomed in the distance. As though the denizens of that plane had yet to know there was a way into our material world, that they could breech through and bring a planet under their fell reign.

'Can any of you operate the vox equipment in here?' All of the shook their heads and the fear that even with their angel of war, this world would be lost. All except one.

'All the Lords on this world had to be inducted in the basic operation of communication technology, in case an invasion or rebellion were to occur'. Gunder made his way over to a control panel and began fiddling with the keys and buttons. 'What should I tell them if I can get through to any Imperial authorities? Will they come?'

Trak turned to face Gunder. 'Tell them a warp breach has occurred and that this world could succumb to a daemon incursion if no reinforcements arrive soon, if that does not work then I truly have no idea what will happen'.

The old lord sighed. 'You are going in aren't you, you'll walk right into that hellscape alone'.

Trak laughed, bitterly. 'No, not alone, the Emperor walks with me. Though I would ask one thing of you my brothers. If any get passed me, bring our fury upon them'.

'Aye!'

'Yes sir!'

'In the Emperor's name!'

'Fight well angel of death!'

These were some of the words cheered as Trak carefully stepped over the corpses beside the portal. 'Barricade this breach well, if I don't come back then ensure nothing gets through. If I do return I will say that we drink this worlds finest ale together'.

With those words he stepped into the warp, the howling winds, roaring beasts that now sensed a fresh soul that had entered their domain which led them right to their gateway to the material world. A world they could consume.

The sound of Trak opening fire could be heard in the control room, as could the crackle and flash of explosives and warp fire. A beast tried to claw it's way through, a bulbous head of many maws slobbering and snapping for anything close enough to consume. Only for it to be dragged back with a yelp.

'Create a barrier and weld it shut! Gunder can you get anything!'

The boom of cannon fire and the steady stench of sulphur brought every person in that control room to a cold sweat, all praying and begging the Emperor to grant his light to this angel, who despite reason should of dragged them in there with him.

Gunder pulled off a headset. 'The ETA for help is a seven solar cycles! Can you hold out that long!'

The wait for a reply was long, it felt like hours, it could have been. 'Barricade the breach! Seal it up! I may not be able to hold them off for that long, please save this world and yourselves!'

In the warp Trak stomped on a daemon's head, spewing it's matter on his boot. Quickly he blasted three holes in a hulking beast that ran towards him before leaping out of the way, just shy of the corpse crashing into him. 'I refuse to see more fall, I will not allow this world to burn, nor will I witness chaos take more form me again!'

'You heard him! Seal it now!'

So the men began piling whatever they could on top of the hole in reality, over hours and nights they added to the barricade. Welding it shut, sealing off a hell that they prayed for seven days would be held at bay, that Trak was still alive and fighting on the other side. It seemed that when their hope began to wane, when a dark force wrapped itself around their souls and tried to strangle the hope from them they would hear the faintest war cry, scream or praise to the Emperor. It was when they thought they heard that sound that it seemed as though this battle could be won, that there was hope in the universe.

**One week later**

'Trak, Trak! Are you still there! Come back to us, help has come!'

Gunder waited as his voice seemed to echo through the warp, though now it seemed quiet and dark without fire or lightning. Then in the distance he saw a silhouette lumber through the haze and come close enough to clamber through the portal, back into Idilin.

As what Gunder hoped was Trak came through, his heart sank lower than when he discovered his home could fall to daemons. The man who stood before him now was not the man who he had seen off into the warp. Three space marines belonging to the Imperial Fists chapter immediately surrounded Trak, aiming their bolters at him preparing to gun him down the moment he made a wrong move.

His left arm was gone, torn clean off at the shoulder, as was his right eye and ear. What seemed like claws had dragged their way across the right side of his head, though oddly the wounds seemed to have scarred long ago. The power armour that once seemed impregnable was torn and broken, the chest plate had been punctured and even cracked at multiple points, the right pauldron was gone as was the gauntlet. His left thigh too had been pierced, missing pieces, while both poleyns guarding the knees were missing too. Leaving only the dented, scarred and chipped greaves along with sabatons to protect his legs.

Though what shocked Gunder most of all was the clear fact that he seemed to ignore upon first seeing him, perhaps trying to deny it in his subconscious. Trak seemed older, even for an astartes, the long black beard he seemed to have grown was grey at the ends as was his mess of long black hair.

'T-Trak? Is that you?'

A blade of bone clattered to the ground from his right hand as he fell to his knees. He began coughing blood in wet heaves, crying out in pain, before falling face first to the ground.

'Please help him, he is like this because he went in there for our sake please!'

The space marines present gave each other a look, thinking to themselves, each knowing what the other wanted to say. 'Is it true that he is one of the Iron Warriors? The traitor legion?'

One loomed over him and aimed his bolter at the dying astartes head. 'Brother Ralan, what should we do'.

'P-Please do not do this! From what we know he came here to be free from the heresy, to leave the traitor legion behind!'.

A moment of silence fell, neither party knowing what to expect or what to do. 'Inform the Inquisitor, he has earned that at least'.

'Brother Ra-'

'I will not hear it Brother Deran, as of this moment this is beyond us, or would you condemn all based on the actions of their brothers? If so go to war with most chapters in the Imperium. Would you raise your weapon to the Dark Angels I suppose?'

No further retort was offered by Deran. Affirming Ralan's authority over his peers, his rank seemingly just above theirs.

'Thank you Lord Ralan, I owe you a life debt'. Gunder knelt before the yellow clad marine, weeping in gratitude.

It was only a clank that disturbed the scene as a new presence made itself known, walking through the doorway. 'If it is anyone you will owe a debt it shall be the Inquisition, now tell me why I should save this man's life?'


	5. Chapter 4

**Iron is All**

The holding bay was thick with the smell of sweat, followed by the mild copper aroma of blood, as it had been used as a improvised rehabilitation zone for the past few weeks. Sadly warp travel is long, tedious and more often than not boring for anyone onboard. This included even the illustrious astartes.

Now whilst most men and women aboard the ship spent leisure time gambling, rutting or selling contraband there was a far different scene occurring in the depths of the void faring vessel. Two men of great stature engaged in unarmed combat, striking and grappling at each other when possible, though what made the match more interesting was one of them attempting to fight with one arm. While their movements were a lightning blur to a humans eyes it was simply play fighting in their eyes, even as lips burst and noses cracked.

It was the physically able one, who had a bald shaven head, that always seemed to have a guard even when he should not of. Even his attacks were a defence. This can too be said of his "enemy" who sported closely shaven black hair. Though where the bald man had an advantage in his methodical and meticulous technique there was an edge to the dark haired man's technique, one that showed clearly the battlefields he had fought in and just how desperately one could fight if needed.

_RING_

The bald man stopped mid-throw, just sweeping his enemies foot during a grapple, before giving his partner a heavy clap on the shoulder. 'Not bad, for one of the IV Legion'.

While his deep voice and stoic features might of shed venom to others the recipient saw a different meaning. 'Ah, if only I had both arms, then perhaps we can judge our skills fairly'.

'You know better than I that a fair battle is a poets fantasy, not for our ilk'. Grabbing a towel the bald man threw it towards his fellow.

Catching it smoothly, the other thought deeply on his partners words. 'A true sentiment, though it is what we wish to give humanity, a peace that allows the fantasy of honourable duels and fairly fought battles is it not?'

'I never thought you a philosopher Trak. Were all your brothers like that?'

The question seemed to strike harder than any blow landed within the last eight hours. 'I believe we were jaded dreamers, eventually we could only hope that our battles amounted to anything. Though I cannot change what happened, I do wish I could of convinced more to leave with me'.

'Even though Perturabo himself would of possibly killed you for treason?'

Taking a moment to wipe the sweat from around his head and shoulders, Trak sighed. 'Hypocrisy was always his major point of character, it would have been an amusing death at the least Ralan'.

Across the room a sealed door opened slowly before a space marine in yellow power armour, and made his way swiftly towards Ralan. 'What do you have to report brother Malkar?'

'Inquisitor Victira was requested the presence of the charge'. Even through the vox grill of his helmet the contempt was clear.

'Very well then, I trust you will find no issue in escorting Trak to the Inquisitor's quarters?'

If Ralan had not been an Imperial Fist, Trak would of considered the remark sarcasm, had Malkar too not been an Imperial Fist, it is highly likely that one would hear teeth grinding. 'No brother, I will fulfil my duties gladly'.

'I am in your care brother Malkar'. It was that war causing humour that proved Trak had spent many years living amongst mortal humans, for better or worse.

The escort took quite a while, proving just how hidden away he had been from the crew of the ship, though it was not unpleasant. It was comforting to be surrounded by familiar scents and sounds once again, Trak did not fully comprehend just how many memories he had on ships like the one he wound his way through. Months or years spent in the void of space whether that was in warp travel or not, it took time to go from battlefield to battlefield and it was often in these pauses between conflicts that he and his brothers came alive somewhat.

Guardsmen, crew and tech priests alike averted there eyes only to reassert them once their backs were turned, if Malkar noticed he made no inclination of such. It became apparent where they were in the ship in correlation to the passengers the duo came across, once the wealthy and nobles had done their share of star-struck staring Trak knew that they had to be in the upper tiers of the ship. A place where only the likes of admirals, astropaths and executives were permitted, though this did nothing to quell the worries that he had been mulling over for the past few weeks.

He knew an Inquisitor was on this ship. That it had been an Inquisitor that had responded to their distress signal and saved the world he had come to care for, something he would be sure to remember when speaking with this person. An Inquisitor that had not immediately killed him on sight, this caused him to consider the fate that awaited him, and just how much he may favour a clean death.

By the time they had reached their destination Trak stood before an ornate door, this part of the ship was exceptionally grand, gilded sculptures and engravings dennoted just exactly the kind of people meant to be living in this segment of the ship. Malkar gestured with his bolter for Trak to enter, without argument he did so, though as he entered Trak noted that Imperial Fist simply stood guard outside the door as it slowly closed.

The room was quite dark, not what he expected of an Inquisitor's quarters, a spiced scent hung in the air. Wisps of smoke spoke of burning incense, though it was much kinder to the senses than the ones used in some temples and shrines. No expense was spared in the decoration and comfort this space provided, it surprised him sometimes that the fabled and dreaded Inquisitors did indeed have human vices.

'Ah, you have arrived, excellent'. An undeniably feminine voice came from his left, though he sensed that it could easily be a voice that executed worlds when needed. The woman was rather tall and even quite muscular beneath the blouse she currently wore, the blood red cravat worn with it displayed the formal yet lax atmosphere the coming discourse was going to have. She gestured to a large, plush, sofa before pulling a bottle of wine from behind her desk. Trak needed no further instruction.

'Before anything else happens, I need to know if this is where I am to die'.

Although it was clear that this was a thought that had been on his mind since the distress signal had been sent out, before he walked into the warp, the Inquisitor proceeded to pour a glass of wine as though a potential heretic, traitor and genetically engineered death machine wasn't standing less than four meters away from her. 'I believe my gesture indicated that you sit, or am I to believe this is the standard of all Astartes of traitor legions?'

On the surface, the Iron Warrior was stoic yet within he both applauded the female's confidence and silently dreaded just what made her so confident he would not snap her neck for sport. 'Very well, so I shall'. Hearing this a smug smile tugged at the corner of her face, the side he could see anyway. She was currently carefully pouring another glass, the gleaming wine looking rather beautiful in the dim lighting.

Trak took note of her fiery hair, more so the wisps of grey that streaked here and there, though she was not without her scars. Grazes and scratches along her cheeks though a large slash could be seen going along her neck yet it disappeared beneath her blouse. Once done with the wine, she placed the bottle behind her desk and brought the two glasses over. The clack of heeled boots letting the space marine know when she was done.

'Mirian'. She passed a glass to him, which he had to hold awkwardly and delicately. 'Inquisitor Mirian'. Taking a seat next to Trak, she drew out a footrest before getting comfortable and leaning on the arm of the sofa. He had to admit it was a first to be drinking wine with a member of the Inquisition, the situation almost seemed like the set up for a terrible joke that travelled the barracks of guardsmen.

'If I may be so direct, why exactly am I here?'

Mirian looked at him for a moment as if he had suddenly spouted wings and proclaimed he was Sanguinius reincarnate. 'A distress signal was sent out, you were dying when we got there, seems rather logical to ensure you reached an medical bay'.

This woman, once more, baffled Trak. 'Aren't the traitor legions shot on sight? Made an example of for their treachery? What could I possibly possess that would make you so tolerant of my existence?'

A loud gulp let him know that his "interrogator" needed a rather heavy dose of alcohol, he even began to suspect if the Space Wolves enlisted women now. 'While I would love nothing more than to probe the depths of ethics and philosophy with a living relic that is sadly a luxury my line of work does not afford. You see, Trak, I did not finish your half-corpse off because my intuition told me that a traitor would of opened a warp breach, not close it, that and Captain Ralan believed you to have honour thus he would not allow your death without trial at the least, you marines always chanting about honour'.

'So I am to be executed after having my crimes read aloud'. His depressive statement caused the clearly stressed woman to sigh.

'If you wish for death then simply say it, cease your need to find an excuse to die. Do you think yourself the only one to abandon your legion? The only astartes to grow tired of the conflict and fight for themselves instead?'

This gave his a pause of thought. 'I did not think myself the only one, just possibly the only one to live'.

It was the first time Trak saw Mirian make a face that seemed to consider his words as reasonable, she was quite expressive for an Inquisitor. 'So called Blackshields turned up, fighting for one side or none at all, though what they shared in common is that they left their former legion and cut ties. Are you beginning to understand?'

Now he sighed, decades of exasperation vented outwards. 'I already understood the possibility, though to live as though every breath was a crime set a weight on me that few can comprehend. From what you are telling me I assume you have a use for me?'

'You are a smart one, drink your damn wine'. Taking another sip, she savoured the flavour. 'There aren't many like you with the ability, experience and flexibility to succeed in the situations you have. Your survived the Great Crusade and the Heresy then the Warp. The Imperium has need of astartes such as yourself, much of the Emperors work must be done and we are in high demand for those capable enough to do it'.

Trak tried to seem somewhat well mannered and only sip the wine, lest it all spill into his much larger mouth. 'So I am to pose as one of these "Blackshields" and return to a life of war?'

A harsh face palm distorted his view of Inquisitors for the rest of his life, especially seeing one so agitated. 'Yes you shall become a Blackshield, this much is obvious, though I had expected you to understand your value a little more than that, especially for one from the legion famed for pragmatism. We established a specialised chapter known as the Deathwatch, only the best are selected and I believe your experience complimented by your abilities would prove to be a great asset'.

This truly was an offer to consider, one that more than likely had a noose around his neck, the preferable outcome was a life spent redeeming his true brothers and legion under the shadow "Blackshield". Though it meant he could prove that perhaps not all of his brothers were traitors, that some fought in the Emperor's name till the bitter end. Perhaps using it as a means to find answers he could of once only dreamed of, uncover secrets only he would know to maybe die with semblance of peace in the end. Did his insignificant life truly hold a place in the grand tapestry of the Emperor's creation?

How could he refuse?

So it was the warrior of iron relinquished his heraldry to take upon himself a long watch, one that surely would end with his last breath, though they would be the proudest days of his life. Uncovering truths, meeting other brothers who could not bear the pain of witnessing battle amongst their kin while putting others down for good, witnessing wonders never to be whispered. Still he forever he remained Iron. Within and without.

**I would just like to thank everyone who read through this story, reviewed and followed. It truly means a lot to see those numbers jump up and knowing people actually enjoy my work while asking for more makes me borderline ecstatic, so again thank you all! Please tell me what you loved, what you hated, what you would like to see in future and just what theories you have.**

**Till then, farewell! **


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